Let Her Go
by SerialStoryLover
Summary: SPOILERS AHEAD! It's dramatic, it's angsty, it's painful…but lord help me I'm somehow still in love with these two. Post Ep-3, because I wanted to kill Will and Sorkin just a little bit.
1. Prologue

_**Reviews are really amazing. They make writing so much more exciting for us, and we greatly appreciate them - really! Please remember that ;) **_

_**In the meantime, if anyone needs to some angst to make up for that farce of an ending, read on: **_

* * *

**Prologue**

* * *

_Well you only need the light when its burning low_

_Only miss the sun when it starts to snow_

_Only know you love her when you let her go_

_Only know you've been high when you're feeling low_

_Only hate the road when you're missing home_

_Only know you love her when you let her go_

_And you let her go_

* * *

It's been six weeks when Jim barges into the conference room, fury etched into the few lines and contours that the Middle East managed to mark on his youthful face.

Most of the staffers are already gathered, taking their seats for the eleven o'clock meeting and jump when the door bangs open.

Stupidly, Jim looks around like Will is going to be in a different seat than he usually is. When he finds him, his eyes seemed to calm for a moment as he acquires his target. Everyone is looking between them.

Will has the decency to look warily, clearly not intending to pretend to be ignorant as to why Jim is angry.

The younger man manages to walk surprisingly steadily around the tabe until he reaches Will's seat and slams something onto the table. There is fire in his eyes as they meet Will's.

"Does Mac know about this?"

Everyone ss looking confusedly at the object under Jim's palm, which appeares to be an upside down magazine cover. Will looks down at the magazine, a shade of guilt flickering across his face, before he sucks it up and meets Jim's eyes again.

"Yes she does." He answers in a quiet voice. Jim looks surprised, but this news only seems to anger him more.

"Well," He says, clearly trying to keep his cool, taking his hand off the magazine so fast that his colleagues might have thought it had burned him. "I hope you see the irony in this being leaked by a tabloid magazine."

If Jim could spit poison…

All of his colleagues are looking at him with a mixture of shock, horror, and undisguised interest as to what the hell could make Jim – loyal, dependable Jim – lose it with his boss - their leader.

There is a gasp from one of the interns in the corner of the room that ends the staring contest between the two men. The intern in question looks up, looking almost scared that he'd been caught. Jim smirks.

"Well, guess that's that secret out." He leers at Will, his disdain obvious. "Wonder why you wanted to keep that _particular_ woman a secret? You never bothered with any of the oth-"

Will bolts to his feet, getting right in Jim's face. "You are way outa line." He says threateningly.

"Well you just screwed over my sister, so actually –"

"You have _NO_ idea –"

"I KNOW A _HELL_ OF A LOT MORE THAN YOU –"

"GUYS!"

They (and everyone else in the room) turn to find Mackenzie McHale standing in the doorway, one hand holding her usual stack of notes and research papers in her hands whilst her hip keeps the door open.

It would have been easy to miss the pain that was briefly revealed in her eyes when she looks at Will, but no one misses it. She twists to Jim instead.

"Jim, take a seat; Will has a meeting with Charlie that he needs to go to. "

Jim glares at her, now apparently angry with her too. He splutters, unable to decide who to yell at: her or Will.

He abruptly walks over to her, grabbing her forearm and pulling her back out the door, shielding her from the focused gazes of her staffers.

"Mac?" He speaks quietly, looking suddenly hurt as he tries to take her in. "Why am I only just finding out about this?"

Her throat seems to have glued together just above her voice box.

"You – can – God Mac, you can tell me –"

Her face softens as she realizes what he is trying to say. She trails her arm through his now loosened grip and squeezes it gently, thanking him for defending her.

"Are you really going to let him keep pushing you around like this?" He hisses in a pained voice before the anger works its way back in, "You. Deserve. Better."

She hadn't believed him the last time he'd told her this, but now he was going to force her to believe him. He is looking at her so fiercely that he's surprised that sentence has not burned itself onto her forehead.

"Jim!" She cuts him off firmly. He forces himself to shut up and control himself, but its a hell of a struggle. "I'm not. I'm _not_, okay? I promise."

His face turns to one of confusion, then relief, and then a slither of fear returns as an unthinkable thought occurs him. But she's two steps ahead of him, and can already guess at what is going through his mind, but she tightens her grip in a warning before dragging him back in after her, taking some small measure of comfort in the warmth of his skin under hers. She can't stand the pitiful looks she is getting from the others, all their laptops clearly open to google. She has to remain cool.

"Forget the dramatics everyone, lets get this meeting started." She places her things down on the table, acutely aware of Jim's efforts to control his breathing behind her. She realises as she sits down that Will still hasn't moved.

"Will, Charlie wants to see you. Get moving." She barely glances at him, certain that if she does then this whole façade will fracture in an instant. She's been avoiding him since Charlie had called them both into his office ninety minutes earlier.

"Can I have a word?"

"You have a meeting." She tells him firmly, eyes still fixed on the notepad in front of her, looking awfully like she'ss staring at the letter P at the beginning of Pennsylvania instead of reading. She is.

"Mac?" God, he's pleading. What exactly is he expecting her to do here?

He has finally managed what, admittedly a lesser man would have gone after months - _years -_ ago maybe: good old fashioned revenge.

Yes, she has been nicer about Nina lately – she has always been one for forgivness and second chances (_even if he isn't_, she thinks bitterly), but the fact remains that that woman, has dragged Will's, her's _and_ her teams' reputation through the mud several times this past year. And now Will is sleeping with her!

Well cocka-fucking-doodle-doo! Hooray! He's finally done what any red-blooded male would have already, and done to her what she did to him…which she kind of doesn't feel she has a right to be angry about. But then she does.

Oh, but she does.

Because this was not some, 'oh you just cheated at me, so now I'm going to respond in kind' jackass move. Oh no. This was a 'oh you cheated on me several years ago, went through a warzone to punish yourself, and then came back to me and took two years of my mediocre, yet ridiculously consistent bullshit, for me to finally cheat back at you just for one final twist of the knife.'

And God has he put her in a pickle.

They were about to get slammed over their Genoa broadcast, which meant she couldn't just leave without it making them look ten times worse, and ten times guiltier.

She was stuck here.

With him.

And the delightful Nina fucking Howard – who, by the way, has once more sunk drastically in her estimations.

Passing on the 911 anniversary story does _not_ get her off a career's worth of crap she has written about strangers she has never met and shouldn't give a shit about.

She isn't aware of how it had happened, but she ends up on the other side of the door once more, this time with Will. Has she been so wrapped up in her thoughts that she had not even noticed herself agreeing to talk with this man whom she couldn't retain eye contact with for more than three seconds? In front of all their subordinates?

"What do you want Will?" She asks tiredly, sinking onto the desk that was at her back.

"I just –" He is looking helpessly at her like _he_ has no clue as to why he has brought her out here. She suspected that was actually exactly what had happened. He looks around in frustration before sticking his hands in his pockets and trying to steady his breathing at her. "I just wanted to say I'm s –"

If he says the word 'sorry', there was a strong chance she would hit him with what could be dubbed 'excessive force'. So she heads him off instead.

"Look, I'm the idiot here. I'm the one who has been pining after you like a stupid lost puppy whilst completely missing the signs that you had moved on, so –" she runs her hands through each side of her parting, tucking the hair behind her ears whilst trying to ignore the fact that they have a very curious audience only five feet away. "Mixed signals, wires crossed…it happens all the time. _My_ bad for berating you about that damn message. Nina told me Will, I –"

Will's completely gobsmacked at what he's hearing.

Sure, there have been tons of signs over the last couple of years that Mac still wanted a relationship with him, but she has never actually come out and said it until now. It is like the other shoe has dropped and his world is starting to narrow at the sides of his vision, zooming in on the utterly broken look on Mackenzie's face.

And _now_ she was backing off? After all this had he left it too late? Or has he just forced her into this?

Probably the last one. _Shit._

And yet...he's not stopping her. He feels no desire to stop her.

That vindictive, hurting part of him that brought Brian here, and bought an engagement ring just to fuck with her, and helped him take those pills just because part of him knew it would freak her out...that part is back. The part that says unrelentingly, _she deserves this_.

"I wouldn't have said – I mean – look, the whole 'still in love with you thing' – I – I just…"

But Mackenzie's head had snaps up like he has just cracked a whip at it. Her eyes are wide, and yet full of suspicion.

"What?" Will asks with a dry throat that feels like it might crack if he tries to move the muscles again.

"That's not what Nina told me the message said."

* * *

_Only know you love her when you let her go_

_And you let her go_

* * *

**_Dum dum duuuuuum! To be continued in short order. As it turns out anger is a great catalyst for writing. _**

**_Thanks for reading! Please leave a review if you have a minute!_**

**_Music: Let Her Go - Passenger_**


	2. Two weeks later

_**Wow! Amazing response to the first chapter! Thank you so much! I only hope I'm helping with the pain that has come after Sunday's bombshell. **_

_**Rating has gone up due to harsh language. Also, note: The acoustic version of Let Her Go is far more appropriate for these two than the single!**_

**_I own neither The Newsroom, nor Passenger, nor their song. Damn._ **

**Chapter 1: Two weeks later**

* * *

_But you only need the light when its burning low..._

* * *

Saturday. The most depressing day of the week.

Well, after Sunday.

Saturday _used_ to be the most depressing day of the week, because Sunday had always meant it was only one day 'til he'd be back in the Newsroom. Back with her. _Them_! Them, he told himself; resisting the urge to throw his beer bottle over the side of the balcony.

In fact, screw the beer. He was certain he had some Scotch somewhere.

He was so mad, and he wasn't even sure who he was mad _at_. Mac, for giving up; Charlie for letting her; Jim for doing the right fucking thing; or Nina for turning out to be a nice person and making him want to ask her out.

Of course, he should really blame himself, but he couldn't do that right now. Because he was too damn angry, and if he directed that back at himself, he wasn't sure what would happen. Mac, Charlie, Jim and Nina were safe, not on this balcony with him. He wasn't sure he was safe from himself.

But he was going to drink anyway.

* * *

_Two weeks earlier..._

She said it so quietly that he had to ask her to repeat it. All he had made out was 'Nina' and 'not'.

When she repeated herself, she found a growing ball of warmth in her stomach that seemed to be counter-acting the intense dryness in her eyes as her mind started to catch up with what her brain had just processed.

When she looked up at Will, his eyes were so wide that he might have been high there and then – hopefully he was: she might get an answer out of him that way.

"Will…" She actually felt like she was doing weights. The effort this sentence took for her was immense, purely because of the amount of emotional strength she had put into it over the last two months. "What did the message say? And – I swear to whatever Deity you so prefer, if you don't answer, or if you lie, then I'm taking Nina's answer as writ and that's the end of it. We don't ever come back to it and its over."

He had already blown it. They both knew it.

She saw his eyes widening as he tried to figure out what to do. That he actually had to think about it was making her want to walk away before he even had the chance to speak at all.

"You said –" She started again, nervously twirling a strand of hair in her hand, partly for comfort, but more because the pressure on her roots as she tugged it reassured her that this was not some horrific nightmare – it was painfully real. "You said a minute ago that you were still –"

She couldn't finish the sentence. Not if it wasn't true. Not if he was lying. Or even if he had just been high; she couldn't –

Will turned on the spot, lingering with his back to her for a few seconds. All the while Mac just wanted to smack him around the head and maybe grab his shirt front and shake him until she forced the truth out of his reluctant, frustrating, and annoyingly gorgeous body.

"Itbasicallysaidiwasstillinlovewithyouandtojustign orethemessageifyoudidntfeelthesame."

His breath came in spurts after that. Like he had been lifting weights too.

He was looking at her as though she could turn into some sort of dangerous animal that might attack him at any moment – Lord, if only she could!

For seconds after his words she was unable to actually understand what he had just said. Her brain seemed to have slowed right down and the sentence was crawling through her usually ridiculously high-speed mind.

When it had finally computed, all she could do was stare at him dumbly, unable to find words that could justly express her feelings. Not knowing what else to do, she turned back towards the conference room, determined to pretend that hadn't just happened – at least until she could find a darkened room somewhere. Possibly equipped with a punching bag. But Will caught her arm just as she got the door open.

"Mac –"

No.

All the ire and suppressed feelings of devastation that had been slowly building since Charlie's meeting caused her go with the tug, almost knocking him over as she turned into him, sticking her face right next to his so that there would be no misunderstanding her emotions.

"Are you blind?!" She wasn't going to be quiet about this either. If Will was not willing to give her some space and privacy then she really didn't give a shit. If he wanted to have this out in front of their staffers, then so be it – he had the power to fire her (as he had so often reminded her all those months ago) and right now she was not entirely opposed to the idea.

"I –"

"No really, Will? Are. You. Blind?" The tears probably weren't aiding her mission to make him feel remorse – she was supposed to be tough and angry right now, for crying out loud! But she was too worn to try and stop them.

"Are you seriously telling me that if I had just answered a voicemail – a voicemail which, _by the way_, I couldn't answer because the woman you've been _fucking_ -" she spat the word at him_, "_for the last six weeks –"

Her voice cracked. God she couldn't talk about this.

Pinching her nose, she determined that she had to finish this sentence or she would lose the last remaining self-respect she had. Using a technique she and Jim had been taught in the Middle East, she breathed in through her nose and out through her mouth a couple of times before she felt calm enough to go on.

"Are you telling me that if I had answered we would have gotten back together?"

Will simply stood. And that made her so fucking angry.

Obviously he didn't think much of her right now, but could he not even give her a simple fucking yes or no?

She was fairly sure that she could feel the burning stares of the twenty or so people in the room behind them, along with those few people at the surrounding workstations. She wanted the floor beneath her to open up and swallow her whole, because the look in Will's eyes was giving her the answer she was dreading.

She would rather hear that he would hate her guts for all eternity and he wished she was damned to suffer the punishments that awaited adulterers than have him tell her that she had missed her chance because of…well, because of the woman he had been taking to bed instead of her.

She was _so_ mad at him for giving her that little flame of hope. That hope that had been burning inside her like a beacon for weeks now. That hope that had urged her to not give up; on him, on them.

Sure, it was humiliating and degrading - the next few days and weeks were going to be as bad as, or if not worse than, those that had followed her leaving him five years earlier. But mainly it just hurt because she loved him.

And apparently that counted for sweet fuck all.

Finally, "I don't know."

Silence.

"But we might have?"

Silence.

OOOOO

They didn't talk for the rest of the afternoon. The two follow-up rundowns were conducted through the staff as intermediaries, and during the broadcast she never answered his questions, only gave him information as required, and by the time he had exited the studio, he merely caught the swish of her coat round the far corner as she left the Newsroom.

Ten hours, six text messages and three unanswered calls later, she finally responded to him.

_Sorry, but you dented my fender. "I don't know" was a little too inane, if you get my drift. _

That was the last time they had talked about Nina Howard. And since then they had barely talked at all.

* * *

Now he was sitting in his penthouse, Nina's clothes and perfumes gone and their essence removed with several layers of bleach and air freshener to try and erase those memories from his brain and his home.

It hadn't worked.

His guilt and his anger had gone into overdrive since she had left.

All the things that had been in his head about moving on and opening a new chapter in his life – all that _bullshit_ – had evaporated the moment she had told him that she was leaving for four weeks. It was like trying to hold water in his hands – he just couldn't. The thoughts and intentions just seeped through his fingers and were gone. He hadn't been able to find them again.

The nights came early now, and all he could think about was the laughter and the banter that had filled the days following his hospitalization in the late evening of Summer. The renewed sense of hope and determination, and sense of family that had existed in those few precious days before Genoa and Nina Howard had torn it all down again.

These days the Newsroom was just a place of work. A place where people arrived in the morning and tried to remember the mantra that there absent leader had once hammered into them until they got to leave, relieved at the end of the day.

And Will hated it.

Hated that within a couple of hours of Mac leaving the slump had already set in.

That she could hold so much of them in her hands and her heart that one day away was enough to break their backs and leave them drifting. One week was crippling. And there were so many days yet to be. God, that she was the one who really held all the power, and now she was gone.

Gone because of him.

He hated that she'd exposed him to that. Hated that everyone knew it too.

But God he missed her.

It had been nine days.

Nine long, excruciating days since she had left. And there were another three whole weeks to go until she would return.

_If she returned_, he thought darkly. Was this just her go-to solution these days?

_And whose fault is that?_ Another slightly more reasonable voice queried from the back of his mind.

God, he was losing it.

It was coming on for one in the morning, and the blackness hung over the jagged outline of New York like a dark blanket keeping out the light.

All the old clichés he had ever heard about winter, and the dark and the frost coming seemed sharper, new meanings creeping into his mind the more he brooded on his own failure and fallibility.

Usually, he didn't mind the night. It was peaceful (a time he had treasured all the more since he had moved to the vibrant hub that was the Big Apple), and had always been reassuring and inspiring to him. You could see the stars - or you could in Nebraska. But even with the glare of Broadway's lights poisoning the blackness, he knew they were up there: wonder and impossibility – the engines of human innovation.

But now it was cloudy and foreboding and unfriendly, like it was blocking him out, or maybe keeping him in.

Or perhaps it was something else.

Maybe his life was just darker, steadily growing more so as his troubles and the depression that accompanied him deepened. There was no light that he could find, and the worst part was that he knew why.

It wouldn't be this dark where she was. And not just the sky…

* * *

_Well you only need the light when it's burning low…_

* * *

_**Two chapters within hours of each other! I've actually managed to shock myself!**_

_**Thank you for reading everyone! Please review/follow/favourite if you can. Your comments have been amazing! ;) Cheers! x**_


	3. Four Weeks Later

_**Please allow me to put a quick shoutout to everyone who was kind enough to leave comments on my new fic Hello, Goodbye! That's the most amazing response I've ever had for a fic – different people getting different feels from it is the best compliment you could have given me, and was incredibly touching! Thank you so much guys! I'll sleep well tonight! :)**_

_**I should also reassure the people I scared, however, that I AM a WillxMac shipper to the bitter end. I haven't given up. But, for now, back to the angst for a little while longer. For the show must go on…**_

_**Hurt – Johnny Cash**_

_**Let Her Go – Passenger**_

_**I own neither.**_

**Chapter 2: four weeks later**

* * *

_Only miss the sun when it starts to snow_

_Only know you love her when you let her go_

* * *

He was sick with himself.

He was throwing himself his own personal pity party, but he couldn't help it. He had nowhere else to go and nothing else, or no one else to be with.

It was nearing November and he was out here smoking, a three-quart empty bottle of Johnny Walker on the ground next to his lounger, strumming along to _Hurt_ on his guitar. His fingers numb, not just from the chords, but from the nipping cold tearing at him as the wind tore through the maze of buildings which comprised Manhattan.

How had he messed this up so badly?

He had heard Jim on the phone to her earlier. He had actually been _laughing_!

Wherever she was, she was okay. And he so wanted to hate her for that. But he couldn't.

She had said a month. She had said it to everybody. But he – he had heard Jim say…

He took another large swig of Walker and plucked angrily at the chords.

"_But I remember everything…what have I become my sweetest friend, everyone I know goes away in the end…and you could have it all, my empire of dirt. I will let you down. I will make you hurt_."

He sang it at the night, howling at the veiled moon behind the clouds, not knowing what he wanted to come of it. It's not like anything could. Except maybe a sectioning… But it just seemed to fit.

Despite whatever Mac had said to their staffers, he still caught their disappointed looks at least three times a day. He knew what they thought of his actions, of his choices.

* * *

_Three weeks earlier…_

It had been five days since Jim had come storming into the conference room, calling Will out. Five days since he and Mackenzie had properly spoken to each other. Five days since he had become the unspoken pariah of the bullpen.

Mostly he avoided dwelling on his newfound social status by pondering whether, if he had been public about their break up five years ago, would Mac have been the one being treated like a plague-carrying alien whilst_ he_ got all the support.

After that he usually wanted to throw up. Because his mother had consistently told him whenever his little brother broke one of his things that two wrongs don't make a right, so he shouldn't break something in retaliation.

He occasionally wonders whose side his mother would be on right now.

He can see Charlie struggling with his disappointment when they talk. He's the only one who really hasn't abandoned Will. But that's parents for you.

Will acknowledges that everyone is still acting professionally (he's almost certain that Mac has had a word with them), but he's also fairly sure that if he and Mackenzie stood on opposite sides of the room and asked them to pick one, he'd come off worse.

He had caught her and Jim bickering as they exited her office. She looked determined whilst Jim was looking mildly alarmed, and seemed to be trying to talk her down as they both headed off in the direction of the elevators.

He's intrigued.

He used to be the one she'd always run ideas by.

Since she returned that role has been shared fairly equally with Jim – something that was always a tiny, petty twinge in Will's side, but one which he ignored.

In the last five days, however, that twinge has erupted into a fully-fledged jealousy and resentment that he kind of hates himself for.

He knows that if he just comes clean then there is chance to salvage this. But it really is like he has been paralyzed; trapped inside his own mind which has been overthrown by the rebel forces in his brain led by a horrific alternate of himself, and he can only watch as his life falls apart in front of him.

That analogy turns out to be oddly appropriate forty-eight hours later when he walks into a room where Mac, Charlie and Jim inform him that Mac is taking a month's leave to go and cover a story with an old friend in Mali.

He's furious.

Is running off to warzone just what she does? Turns suicidal?

He's about to make this argument when he really looks at the three people in front of him. The steel in Jim's eyes, the resolution in Charlie's, and he's certain that if Mac wasn't staring at her shoes he'd catch the defeat in hers, and so he swallows his retort.

So she _is_ giving up?

He tries to ask this under the guise of asking what will happen about Genoa. It's the first time she's looked at him whilst speaking to him since _that_ day.

She explains that she's only going for a month so she would be back before the shit really hit the fan. And then he said it.

"If you're only going away for a month then why go at all?" He asked, frustration and exasperation entangling themselves so tight into one sentence that it may as well have sounded like a desperate plea rather than a half-legitimate question. Jim looked like he might have pounced, but Charlie was standing next to him, apparently keeping him grounded.

Mackenzie's eyes could have shot lasers, they looked so hot.

"Because I can't even –" he knew she was about to say 'look at you right now', but being his typical Mackenzie, she was refusing to show any sign of weakness to her adversary; which was him these days. "Because I need the time, okay?"

She stepped forward, worrying her lip between her teeth in a way that always drove him crazy, though she had no idea. "I'm not abandoning you guys. I would never do that. But we've already got enough shit press as it is right now along with a stack of problems as high as the ceiling, and maybe if I disappear for a while it will keep the focus on what's really at stake here rather than a non-relationship."

Was she talking about him and Nina, or him and her?

Charlie and Jim seemed to have faded into the background, he was so mesmerized by the fact that she was standing two feet away from him and actually talking to him for the first time in days - even if what she was saying wasn't exactly positive.

"Jim has agreed to fill in during that time, so you don't need to have a hissy fit about finding another EP."

Okay, so now Jim came firmly back into his mind. Will actually gulped.

The look in Jim's eyes was pure loathing. He was not going to give him an easy ride.

Knowing he was personally trained by Mac, Will was certain he'd know just how far he could push revenge without it be ostensibly unprofessional.

Will had no idea how the two of them were going to survive four weeks as partners, but he also felt a totally inexplicable sense of pride at the younger man, who was clearly doing this out of his devotion to Mackenzie. She had asked and he had given without reservation. He had put her needs first.

He had once been that guy. God, Jim Harper!

He could find no argument to justify him wanting he to stay; because right now he couldn't justify himself having the right to ask her to.

He wondered if Mali had been a choice or whether there had been few options. Did she choose danger to piss him off.

_Don't be so fucking self-centered Billy!_ Her disembodied voice spoke tiredly in his brain.

* * *

She had been _laughing_ on the phone with Jim.

A tear that he had been stubbornly holding in for the better part of an hour finally made its way over his eyelid and down his cheek. Not that he could feel it in the cold wind. His toes had lost their feeling about twenty minutes ago.

"_Beneath the stains of time, the feelings disappear…you are someone else, I am still right here_."

His voice was more of a croak now that the dam had burst, but he managed to get it out before he hugged his guitar to his chest and tried to forget all the times they had sat together, her foot pressing into his thigh whilst he played.

And that's what he was scared of.

She had been laughing on the phone with Jim. She had been happy.

He was miserable.

What if she had found a way to move on? Not that he could blame her. Not after that day. Hell, it's what he would have done. It's what he _had_ done. Or what he had tried to do.

He just wanted her home. He'd deal with the fallout afterwards.

Ignoring the snowflakes that were starting to fall, he stared off into the distance as his fingers slowly stopped moving on the strings, at a loss for what to play.

* * *

_Only miss the sun when it starts to snow_

_Only know you love her when you let her go_

* * *

**_Okay, appearance from Mac soon, and if the angst is getting too much for you, just remember what I said earlier ;) _**

**_Please review if you can! The support and comments/input have been so amazing! I love hearing from you guys! :) Cheers! Ax_**


	4. Three Weeks Later Pt I

**Let Her Go: Chapter 3: Three Weeks later**

_**Truly guys, amazing response! Deep love to everyone who reviewed and favorited! I've been out of town for a couple of days (yes Gina, a social life!) hence the slight delay on the update. And I'm spicing it up a little now - get this story going!**_

_**NB: I have never been to Mali. Secondly, don't be put off by the time jumps. Just follow the song lyrics and it will all make sense ;)**_

* * *

Three Weeks later…

* * *

_Staring at the bottom of your glass_

_Hoping one day you'll make a dream last_

_But dreams come slow and they go so fast_

* * *

It wasn't Pakistan, but it felt strangely the same.

She knew that there were some definite similarities: some of the same crew – same reporter, camera man and liaison at CNN; similar temperature; similar sense of danger and excitement and electrified energy; similar reason for being there…

She was perched on the edge of the roof of the local house they were living in, sipping at a forbidden bottle of vodka one of the other crews had left them before moving on.

Looking out over the foreign marketplace, which was still busy enough for nearing eleven at night, she found a little comfort in the universality of small traditional cafes packed with locals drinking tea, and others who were stopping to chat in doorways and streets as they spotted friends.

This had been a tradition of her and Jim's back out East. At the end of a long day, in the hours before they were due to put in a live report, or when they had the luxury of a tape (after they had finished the editing) they would make their way back to whatever hotel they were at and chill on the balcony, people watching; taking in the culture and the day-to-day errands and hustle of the lives of others.

It was a strangely out of body experience, truth be told. Being a reporter was different from just working or living in a country. You didn't really try to settle or mould yourself around it, because you always had to retain some semblance of yourself, otherwise what are you there for? Sure, understand the customs and the culture, the religion and the language; they are essential to being a good, responsible reporter. But if you lose yourself then who are you speaking for?

_Them_ – the people here? Your News corps back home? Your government or ideology? No. Mackenzie had always maintained that in order to be fair and truthful, you should never have to give yourself up. In fact, people may appreciate it more if you speak as you. Don't become a puppet or a robot or a middleman. Be human, and feel and think and question – argue, if need be.

She and Jim had debated the ethics of this for hours on end, never disagreeing exactly, but always coming up with some new things that made them reconsider their previous thoughts.

Yet, like before, she hypocritically felt that in spite of all the effort, you still leave something of yourself behind wherever you go. And she could feel the familiar feeling happening again. But what did she expect? She had run away to lose herself. Hadn't she?

The problem was, there was a massive chunk of her – maybe even larger than before – that was still back in New York. And she wasn't sure how to hang onto the rest of herself when she was already lost and broken. Scattered here and there amongst the places her father had moved them around when she was a kid, in the Middle East, in Manhattan. And now she would leave a piece of herself here whilst she struggled to maintain some semblance of who she knew she was or was supposed to be. In a way it was part of the perpetual struggle over who you are, but you are not really living if you're not fighting it.

There was a rustle behind her as Tom slipped through the open window and out to join her.

He had been amazing.

He had asked no questions when, eighteen days ago she had called up to ask about something that he had only briefly mentioned as a joke three weeks before then.

She and Jim had met him and a couple of other people from their old Peshawar crew who had just returned from Libya for drinks one night. Tom had jokingly asked if he would ever be able to steal her away again as his EP; she had laughed it off and told him she had her dream job here, thank you very much.

When she rang him up less than a month later, he simply accepted her response that she 'just needed a break'. But of course he must have known.

It had been all over the gossip rags and page 6 that first week. The face of the Media Elite and a high-flying Manhattan gossip columnist: _Oh_ the irony! _Hahaha_, she thought bitterly.

But Tom hadn't said anything. And neither had any of the others. Just like before, they had her back.

She knew that they must have talked about it at some point when she wasn't around – there were only five of them here after all, and everyone needed a break from the politics at some point. She was just glad they hadn't known the first time around. She didn't think she could have handled it for three whole years stuck in the desert with few other people around them who spoke decent conversational English.

Everyone here was speaking in French - which had been a long trip down memory lane for her, but she picked it up again in no time at all. It was a little different from the streets of Brussels, though, where she had lived as a teenager for a year.

Back then she had been a wide-eyed, idealistic, intrinsically curious ball of energy. She was still all of those things, but she had a sneaking suspicion that she was loosing some of the glow that accompanied it the longer she tried to hang onto it. Everything fades, right?

Looking down at her now almost empty glass, eyes flickering briefly to the bottle next to her, her thoughts inevitably floated back to the journey home, which was suddenly looming larger now that she was at the half-way point.

The next two weeks seemed all at once too long, and yet far, far too short.

The idea that she would have to go back and face it all in fourteen days time was horrific, but she had a wry suspicion that she would say they same when there were only two days to go. She certainly didn't feel any better since she had had this same mental conversation ten days ago. The same mental conversation she had with herself every night, incidentally. She likened it to taking her temperature. Like she had a fever, and intermittently checked if it had gone down.

No luck yet.

On the other hand, she couldn't remember a time prior to the last three weeks when she had been away from Will for longer than 48 hours since being embedded. And in that sense, the fourteen days since and the fourteen still to come felt like a lifetime, even if right now she still just wanted to strangle him with his tie and scream at him for screwing everything up just when it had been starting to go right again.

Or maybe she had just been a complete fool.

She had this thought quite a lot too.

Maybe there had never really been any hope; just a ghost of something that had given the illusion of a resurrection.

And that was the thing. The _real_ reason she was here.

Yes, okay, she was running. But it was more of a run around the block to clear her head rather than a run-for-as-long-and-as-far-as-you-can-until-where- you-are-has-no-resemblance-to-your-old-life.

She knew she was going back.

She just needed to sort her head out. Because she was unbelievably confused right now.

There were so many conflicting emotions chasing each other around her mind, playing the most ludicrous game of Tag there ever was.

Sometimes she was angry, at other times jealous, or spiteful – even hateful; guilty and lonely, hopeless and fierce, determined and vengeful. At all times she was just upset. The thing was these emotions violently switched between being directed at Will, Nina and herself. And there was no telling when they would switch.

She had needed to do this away from the knowing looks of her Newsroom staffers. Her team here knew, sure, but they didn't _know_. Not like the ACN team did. Her and Will's ACN team, who had borne witness to far too much of their shit than should be considered professional.

Yet she was terrified that they would think she was abandoning them (like she ever could); but she had known that if she had stayed then she would have lost it anyway and become useless to them.

She needed a plan.

She needed to sort herself out.

She needed everything to stop breaking.

She was a fixer. She liked to fix things. It's just that she wasn't all that good at it. She wasn't bad, but she didn't manage to pull it off every time - especially not the times when it really, really mattered.

She felt a hand on her cheek, and glanced over to see Tom looking out towards the desert on the outskirts of town, deliberately not looking at her, but letting her know he was there by wiping a stray tear that she hadn't even noticed from her face.

God, this was awful.

Still, at least it wasn't Maggie or Sloan. Jim, she could have handled, but she had needed her lieutenant to stay the course back home. He had offered, obviously – without a moment's hesitation and she had loved him for it. But she needed someone to keep the peace. Jim was always going to be that guy. Her adorably protective, goofy little brother, who just so happened to be as strong as steel where it counted.

Tom sent her an encouraging smile as he topped up her glass, raising his own and nodding to her. She just about managed a small smile back, deciding (as she had done every night so far) that just for an hour, she would stop thinking about her home and her dreams waiting for her four and a half thousand miles away.

But she needed a plan.

God, did she need a plan. Before it all slipped away for good.

Looking up at the clear sky, she raised her glass to her lips, poised to drink.

Somewhere she knew, over a darkening New York sky, Will McAvoy was living and breathing just the way she had left him.

She wondered if he was thinking about her too.

* * *

_Staring at the bottom of your glass_

_Hoping one day you'll make a dream last_

_But dreams come slow and they go so fast_

* * *

_**Yes, part one! Part two is Will…shockingly ;) I guess this one's a bit different, but it was about time I got the plot going instead of just being spiteful. Would love to hear what you think! So so grateful for the support so far!**_

_**Thanks for reading :) Ax**_


	5. Three Weeks Later Pt II

_**Seriously…guys…I can't write anything for four days, and then I manage this in like 40 minutes. I wish I had an explanation for you, but I don't understand my brain. Enjoy! I'm off to sleep so that I can wake up and watch ep 5!**_

**Chapter 3 Pt. II: Three Weeks Later**

* * *

_You see her when you close your eyes_

_Maybe one day you'll understand why_

_Everything you touch surely dies_

* * *

Numbness. That was a good word for his life right now.

It turns out that it's pretty hard for a machine to run when the battery is taken out. The staffers – they're still functioning as they should. If anything, they're even more passionate about this crusade they have been sent on than they were before she left.

Him on the other hand…okay maybe it isn't the battery. Maybe its that oh so small, seemingly insignificant, but ironically essential bridge between the power source and the what's its supposed to be powering (him!) that keeps the electricity flowing which has ceased to function. It's just gone. That one small wire (or in this case person) that is the key.

Charlie called him into his office today. Told him to take a night off because he couldn't look like that on the air again; people would think he was sick, apparently. Well, metaphorically that may be true. Sure, he likes to think of himself as a romantic; one of the dying members of the species Gentlemen that still lingers on this Earth…but lovesick seems to be just a little too much for even his romantic brain to handle.

Charlie complains that the make-up people had to bring in so much 'scaffolding' to make sure his eyes did not look so gaunt that the only way they would be able to deal with it that evening was to throw some CGI budget at the show. It was a no.

"Charlie –" He sighs. He is met with nothing but resistance from the older man's eyes.

He grimaces, frustrated at his own failure to hold himself together.

He can't go home now. He knows that he just can't. Going home now means that he'll have to spend and extra four hours in his penthouse which has seemed to have grown to about twice the size he swears he remembers it being not three weeks ago. He's not sure what happened…whether he slept-walked one night and had an unconscious mid-season clearout of his belongings, or whether it has just miraculously turned into a TARDIS, but it feels bigger. It feels emptier.

It has crossed his mind that maybe he just feels smaller, but in all honesty, he feels so off-base right now without his touchstone that he's not certain even of basic physical dimensions of his world. The road could go vertical like it does in Inception when he's walking to work tomorrow, and he's honestly not sure he'd care.

He just can't go home.

* * *

He's agreed to go home on the sole basis that he agrees he needs to go there to sleep (not that he does – hence the scaffolding). He is adamant about spending the rest of his time at the office in an attempt to keep himself busy, and shut out from the rest of the world which seems determined not to drop their haranguing and intrusive questions about his (by the way, nonexistent!) love life.

Why can't they see he's a lonely, stupid little fuckwit, who is obviously incapable of having a love life, and leave him the fuck alone?

"No, Will. You look like you haven't slept in a week."

That wasn't exactly an exaggeration. They had reached a stalemate and neither wanted to be the first to give in.

"Have you spoken to her?" Will asked quietly, fairly certain that he had not given his mouth permission to say those words.

Charlie huffed at him. Rocking back against his desk, seemingly sizing Will up as if deciding whether or not he merited an answer. In the end Will suspected it was more pity that made Charlie speak rather than any real belief that he deserved it.

"Yes." Okay. So that was all he was going to get.

Will imagined that this was what it must be like to have been parched for water for days on end and then have someone dangle a dripping, ice-cold bottle in front of your face. He was hanging on Charlie's next words…they just didn't seem to be coming…

"_And_ -?" He asked, in what some might call a fairly high pitched voice. He suspected he looked as crazy as a severely dehydrated person might, as well as just feeling like one.

"And _what_, Will?" Charlie replied impatiently. "She took off to North Africa for a month! I'd say that's a fairly solid hint that she doesn't want you knowing what she's doing – that she wants some distance."

"She's said that?" He pressed, starting to pace around Charlie's office, as this new information seemed to swirl in an opposite direction around his mind, causing him to feel slightly disorientated. The older man stared at him, exasperated.

"Well, I'm assuming a smart man like you wouldn't need to be told that. The four and a half thousand mile gap she put between you should tell you that." He appraised him warily, following Will with his eyes like he was watching a live tennis match. "But then you've always been a bit stupid when it came to Mackenzie, haven't you?"

Was that a note of sympathy, Will wondered? He dismissed the idea almost as soon as it occurred to him. He knew whose side Charlie was on in this…well, whatever it was? And Will actually agreed with him – Charlie _was_ on the right side. Well…no…but yes - he was. Of course he was. Will just didn't like admitting it.

"But she doesn't even want you to tell me about her?" Okay, now he knows he sounds desperate. This time, the pity is blatantly written on every line in Charlie's face.

He knows Charlie thinks of him as a son; and when he disappoints this man, he feels a horrible twinge in his gut that he never felt when his 'real' father had a go at him. He respects this man, and wants him to think well of him. And he knows that he has seriously fucked up. He just royally screwed over this man's daughter.

And it's funny, he thinks (well, funny strange, not funny ha-ha), that he has become part of – even the leader – of this family of misfits and differences, when all he had ever meant to do when he escaped from a town outside a town near Lincoln all those years ago was to leave that idea of family behind. But now he's found a better one – a real one. And he's only gone and ruined it.

"She needs some time Will." Charlie says softly, at last. He moves off the desk, walking round it to the little tray of Bourbon that sits in the corner and pours them each a glass. He gestures for Will to take a seat across from him and lays the glass on the far side of his desk. "You hurt her, and she needs some time to calm down."

"She hurt me first!"

He regrets it instantly, knowing how petty and childish it was, and also how different those two incidents were – he's been having this argument with himself for weeks, even before Mac left.

The dagger look Charlie gives him only makes him regret it more.

"Yes, because two wrongs always make a right, don't they? What? You thought if you just slept with someone she didn't like she'd call it even and that would be the end of it?

Sure – she cheated while she was with you, and technically you're not together now so you weren't cheating, but _dammit_ McAvoy! –You've been treating our girl like shit for months – years, even – and playing with her and toying with her…

Don't think I didn't catch that look on your face that day in the hospital! You've been giving her false hope and she's been swallowing it by the mouthful. You were 'even' months ago. You've been torturing her and now you've gone and stuck a knife in her back just to finish it off!"

He had gotten into one of those rants of his where he forgets to breathe whilst he spews out his thoughts, resulting in him taking in one gasping breath before downing his Bourbon and panting slightly as he gets up to pour another.

Usually Will finds this highly entertaining, and teases him about it; today he just wants to choke on his own sip of the drink as it burns the back of his already raw throat. It was a great effort to meet the older man's eyes, but he felt he had too.

"Frankly, you're lucky she's coming back at all. Second chances didn't even cross your mind when it was her."

A flicker danced in Will at these words, as he dared to get his hopes up in spite of the overwhelming wave of hopelessness that had settled in as the days since she had left had dwindled on.

"But she _is_ definitely coming back?"

He really hated that pity that he saw in Charlie's eyes. _Really_ hated it! But it was the only connection to Mac that he had right now and he was clinging on to it (metaphorically of course) with both hands.

"Of course she's coming back." But he could hear the hint of doubt in Charlie's voice.

"Charlie –"

"She said a month, Will. She keeps her promises."

"But what if – what if she decides…"

"What if she decides there's no point in coming back here when's she appreciated out there just the same except without the daily side dish of guilt and harassment over a stupid mistake she committed over half a decade ago and has been paying penance for ever since?"

Will groaned.

He hadn't talked about this to anyone else because he honestly didn't think that anyone downstairs would give him the time of day right now to get it out.

He had to hand it to them, they had learned Mac's version of professionalism inside out – they were still a great team to him…they just were not going to let him forget this in a hurry.

"I know Charlie."

"Know what?" The old man asked smartly, an expectant glint in his eye.

"That I fucked up. That what I was doing was stupid and – even if it was technically 'right' , it was wrong. That by doing it was messing with any potential we still had -"

"If you didn't see the potential that you two still had then you're an idiot." Charlie chastised him. Will slumped back in his chair, draining the remainder of his glass. "I don't know what that message said – though let me tell you I reckon I came to the same conclusion Mac did – but you let her believe you were getting there after two years of torture, and then you ripped it away again in the shittiest way possi –"

"I didn't rip –"

"What, Will? You think she thinks you want to get back together with her _now_?" Charlie actually laughs. "Why on _Earth_ would she think that? Frankly, I think you'll be damn lucky if she's still interested in you when she does get back – which she will, because she's Mackenzie and she's (one time excepted) the most loyal person I know, and she's not going to let us go through this Genoa crap alone."

Will stayed silent. He didn't really know what to say. As a lawyer, he felt his defense right now had so many holes in it, that if he was a flag of battle, it wouldn't last two minutes in the wind before it was torn to shreds.

"Your mistake," Charlie continued, pushing himself out of his chair until he was once more settled on the desk in front of Will, taking the tumbler from his hand, "wasn't actually sleeping with Nina – although that was pretty dumb - your mistake was thinking that you and Mac were still on an uneven footing when you did."

He clapped a hand on Will's shoulder, shaking his head as he did so. "You may never be able to forgive her, or even trust her again, and that's okay…I guess. You have that right. But ask anyone – including yourself – who has worked here these last two years, and I'm willing to bet all the Bourbon in Kentucky that they'd all say she's paid in full, plus interest for her sins."

Will knew he was right.

He had, he was ashamed to admit, come here looking for some sort of support – some sort of comfort that all was not lost and this was fixable. All he'd gotten was a harsh dose of reality and a cold look in the mirror. And maybe that was exactly what he deserved.

"I don't know how to fix this Charlie." He admitted quietly.

"No, neither do I kiddo." He replied tiredly. He cranes his neck at Will oddly, looking at him in a way that makes Will slightly uncomfortable. "Though…though I do know that about five years ago Mackenzie came and told me the exact same thing."

Will's head snapped up at that. His heart was suddenly beating a little faster.

"And up until a little while ago, she was actually doing a pretty good job of fixing it, don'tcha think?"

Charlie's eyebrows were drawn high into his hairline, but there was a hint of a smile ghosting his face, and Will dared to hope that maybe Charlie had not quite given up on them yet; and really, without Charlie and Mac's belief, where would he be right now?

It wasn't quite the comfort he had been hoping for, but it was more than he felt he actually deserved.

"Go on kid, get out of here."

Charlie was back to business. It was like someone had just flicked a switch inside him and his facial expression had changed and his posture had straightened. He looked more in charge. Will needed to remember how to do that.

"The boss is back in a couple of weeks, so we need to get this ship back on course. Get some sleep, man!"

* * *

And he does.

And then he spends four hours writing an email.

A week later, he still hasn't had an answer.

Damn.

* * *

_You see her when you close your eyes_

_Maybe one day you'll understand why_

_Everything you touch surely dies_

* * *

_**Your thoughts about Malestrom were awesome and you're the most supportive, amazing bunch of readers! So…there will be another chapter! Maybe two. We'll see…**_

_**Thanks for reading! A x**_


	6. Four Weeks, Two Days later

_**So, writing these last two weeks has been like pulling teeth thanks to several major stress-inducing events that decided to all come along at once. It all kind of messed with my head so writing was a no-go.**_

_**Life lesson: no matter how much you love your friends, never agree to live in a flat with them unless you've inspected the flat first yourself. Everyone has different standards.**_

_**Anyway…**_

* * *

Four Weeks, two days later…

* * *

_Staring at the ceiling in the dark_

_Same old empty feeling in your heart_

_'Cause love comes slow, and it goes so fast_

* * *

He's fairly certain she's not coming back.

He has no evidence that she's not _not_ coming back, but he's convinced of this anyway.

He sent her an email nine long days ago – he checks his watch – okay, nearly ten long days ago. But, nothing.

Zip. Nada. Kaput.

And it's burning his veins from the inside out.

He wonders how on earth the logic that he has always prided himself on has insisted that Mac's constant yapping at his heels and in his ear has been an annoyance, a burden, when the dull buzzing that accompanies him wherever he goes in her absence is a hundred times worse.

When he's working on his laptop late at night, the only other sound is the light whirring of the cooling fan somewhere in its bowels; he thinks that maybe this is what has happened to him. He's turned into a machine who's brain has just been automatically programmed to spew out Mac-isms during tone meetings, and follow her teachings like a monk to the ten commandments; the rest of the time he's just on countdown until the next five days are over.

A clock or a battery though? He's not sure. Clock suggests that it is counting down to something…battery just implies that when that period runs out he will shut down and die. His battered mind sees this as the prevalent version of the conundrum this evening.

She's not coming back. She would have said. Mac definitely would have said. She would have replied. It's not like her. She is not like him.

This week he's been forcing himself to read some of the five hundred plus emails she sent him whilst she was last embedded. Going through them is surreal.

She sounded like…well, she sounded like the Mac he had known before, not the Mac he knows now. Except there was something he cannot put his finger on; some extra element to her words, her emotions and her character that he cannot describe. It's like – it's like she was in transition from one Mackenzie to the next, and though some things have stayed fundamentally the same, many others changed. This Mackenzie – the Mackenzie in the emails…it's like she's not quite done yet. She's not finished. He wonders how long it actually took her to become the Mac he knows now, and whether right now in some North African desert she's changing again.

But anyway…the point is she wouldn't be a dick like him and not reply to the email.

So why hadn't she?

It was eating him up.

Was she injured? Had they been taken hostage by rebels and CNN was keeping it quiet so that they wouldn't be held for ransom, used as leverage?

Or was she really just so through with them that she wasn't answering because she wasn't coming back?

He keeps coming back to Genoa. That is, ironically, his one beacon of hope, because he knows that whatever he might have done to her, whatever Afghanistan and Pakistan and Africa have done to her, her loyalty was one of the things that had never changed about her throughout it all. She would jump, drenched in oil through blazing hoops of fire for her team and those that she loved and cared about.

He realizes that his head makes no sense right now. He's effectively arguing a moot point with himself, yet he can't kill the doubts that are tormenting him.

He keeps coming back to something Charlie said in that meeting last week – first of all the assurance that Mac was indeed coming back (and that he was still in contact with her – after the hazing his boss had given him the last time he had broached the subject of their correspondence he hadn't had the balls to ask again) but there was another line too:

_Your mistake __wasn't actually sleeping with Nina – although that was pretty dumb - your mistake was thinking that you and Mac were still on an uneven footing when you did._

He gets it now – he totally gets it; and he's willing to grovel, beg, do time, never look at another woman again, take a vow of chastity if he goddam has to, to make her see that he is so incredibly, unbelievably sorry for what he has done to her and done to them.

It occurs to him that she has been doing exactly that – well, most of it – and he did absolutely fuck all to acknowledge it. He grapples with his demons to keep ahold of the notion that she has always been the fairer, better person – not that she has any reason to be now.

He's lying in his bed – his large, cold, empty bed – and wonders how he has managed to so monumentally fuck this up. For over two solid, straight years, he's keep this going when there have been so many small windows of opportunity for him to change it. The move was always his to make – she made sure of that.

They play as if on a reel of film in his mind, those times, as he lies there. All those "but it can be" moments that he let pass them by.

Because she was right again, his Mackenzie.

_It's not. But it can be. _

He wonders if any thoughts about their relationship had crossed her mind when she was writing that, or if she was really just listening to him waffle and it simply sprouted from her producer's instincts on a whim.

All those little moments that had come and gone so fast that at the time he had been too tied up in his own dark thoughts that he had not seen the potential for what they could have been. Solutions.

He was too slow. She's not coming back.

He allows his eyes to close and the darkness to completely enfold his senses.

There's a knock at the door.

* * *

_Staring at the ceiling in the dark_

_Same old empty feeling in your heart_

_'Cause love comes slow, and it goes so fast_

_Well you see him when you fall asleep_

_But never to touch and never to keep_

_'Cause you loved him too much_

_And you dived too deep_

* * *

It's the most comfortable seat she has sat on in days, weeks, maybe. And she's sure that this is a very bad idea. But it was instinctive, impelling, and she just had to do it before she chickened out and reverted back into the submissive, passive, excuse for a person she had been feeling like before she left. The whole reason she had left in the first place. Well, okay…not the _whole_ reason.

She hasn't been checking the Internet much recently.

She has restricted her searches to the saved home pages of the news sites and blogs at the top of her search bar so that there is no danger of her going anywhere near Google, or typing words in that unintentionally bring up any gossip sites or celebrity news of any kind.

She also completely avoids anything that could have anything to do with Genoa.

If anyone has picked up on her swift departure from that mess, then she hasn't read about it, and no one in her team of saints has said anything to her. If she has needed anything researched then she has delegated it to someone else. But she's twitchy now.

The darkness surrounding her is mounting her nerves, making her anticipate the unknown and the possible.

She usually finds this liberating, but right now it just feels like there is a long dark road stretching before her and she can't see where she's supposed to turn off.

She knows that she is sick of thinking like this though. There have been a lot of mental images of tunnels and mazes and darkness haunting her dreams lately, interspersed with her more familiar ones that feature a little boy with silky brown locks brushing over his eyebrows as he clings, snuggled into her collarbone; a boy with impossibly blue eyes. When she's not dreaming about them, she's dreaming about _him_. There's no escape.

She has never been an impatient person. Sure, she could get as frustrated as the next person, but she's pretty good at being rational and being the calm one in the room – the one everybody else relies on to keep the peace. She's a fixer. Or at least she tries to be. But tonight, for the first time in recent memory, she just wants this to be over and to move on to the next thing.

She can't sleep, so here she is passing the time staring into the darkness around her, trying to ignore the noises and rustling of the silent figures here with her. She can at least be grateful that she's tucked into a corner, hidden from the few souls around her who are still awake. She wishes it were lighter, however. She's been up for nearly twenty-four hours and fighting Morpheus is becoming wearisome. But she can't.

The dreams will come back. And she knows that she makes noises in her sleep, and it will be embarrassing, and she already feels ridiculously uncertain about why she's doing this – no need to add another reason to the list. Not that she can actually change her mind now. Too late.

Four hours.

Yeah, definitely impatient.

Because what if this is all for nothing? What if it doesn't work?

She wants to believe the words she's reading in front of her, but she can't be sure. Not now. She needs – well. Yes. That's why she's here. That's why she's doing this.

One of the most rash, impulsive decisions she has ever made…one of the top three. All of which have each been caused by the other. Brian, Afghanistan…now this. Hopefully it's third time is a charm and it doesn't follow the course of the other two.

Four hours.

It's excruciating.

She genuinely believes that getting stabbed was less painless than this, although her weary mind concedes that there was more morphine involved then.

She is just..._angry_.

She keeps coming back to this.

She is so damn angry at him for throwing five years of hard, sometimes even painful or humiliating work on her part – only two of which he really knows about – back in her face without even letting her know that the game was up and she should fold her hand and leave the table. Instead he just let her –

She forces herself to breathe through her nose as it becomes to much again, tears prickling at the corners of her eyes.

The ever-present voice at the back of her mind tells her that he would understand all of this because she already put him through it, but right now she just wants to take that voice into a back room and strangle it.

* * *

The plane lands into a rainy JFK but she's not shivering from the wind, she's shivering from anticipation.

The baggage wheel takes and age, and an old French man standing near her keeps looking at her like he thinks she's about to faint. Or possibly explode. She wouldn't put money on either right now.

The smell of the city hits her as she steps out onto the concourse, heading for the taxi rank. It's familiar and it's comforting and it's home. And she needs that right now.

* * *

Because what if it's all for nothing?

* * *

_Well you see him when you fall asleep_

_But never to touch and never to keep_

_'Cause you loved him too much_

_And you dived too deep_

* * *

**_Apologies for the delay, I know this is quite short. But there is more on the way, and it's taken us five long chapters but we're nearly there! Thanks for reading! Leave a review if you have a minute - they make my day :) _****_Ax_**


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